Monday, June 18, 2018

A memory

I wish I could remember the exact quote and who said it but today I was reminded of a podcast I had heard in the past and the guest was speaking about her rough past and how she got through it. She made a point that stuck with me.

The gist of her explanation was that bad stuff happens to people all the time and to deal with it, they create an explanation for it and think it all "happened for a reason." I am sure we have all heard people say this and there is nothing wrong with it I think because it's a coping mechanism and I don't see the harm in it. The podcast guest went on and said that stuff does NOT happen to us "for a reason." Shit just happens and we search for reasons and meaning after the fact to try to make sense of the randomness and indifference of the universe.

I don't know if it's pessimistic to truly accept the fact that reality and bad luck are mostly random and there is no rhyme or reason behind it. In a sense, thinking like this allows you to perhaps live life in a more carefree and uncaged way. But at the same time, this could put you at risk of thinking everything is meaningless and nothing really matters. That kind of a perspective can rob life of its joys and that's no fun either.

I don't know where I stand on this issue. It's something I have thought about over time but have never come upon a clear answer for myself. Maybe that's fine. Clear answers are rare.

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Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!

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The beginning is perhaps more difficult than anything else, but keep heart, it will turn out all right. -Vincent van Gogh